Instant RepairIt's amazing howan open woundcan make you feelso vulnerable -so unprotected,as though every microbeof the contaminated earthcould needle its waythrough your torn tissue.And yet...It's also inspiring.For in what momentcan you observea more renewingexperience?Skin cells live and die,then stimulate again,rebuilding new barriers -new foundationsfor our bodies.It's the miracle of mending -the marvel of healingthat takes a fractured flesh,and makes it whole again.
Needle of the PineYou're a needle of the pine, my dear -a poking of the spine, a narrow rodto gently prod my heart in waters brine.And when I fall, you pull me tallto bask in heaven's shrine, for what you are'tis not sub-par, my needle of the pine.
The CallSomewhere far,in the outskirtsof my Utopian mind,are the wisps of dawnpulling at my nightgown -the sun - eager to revealyour morning love.And the wind -anxious to succumb toyour dying whisper...The same whisperthat beckons meto find your arms.
Vibrant FallAutumn memories stimulateunder a cardinal-colored tree,where the relentless windonce twisted my hair.The sound of church bellsalways encompassed me,as I sunk into my scarfto obstruct the bitter air.And as I read my books,tales of murder mysteries,I would begin to take inthe perplexing sights.And the satisfying tasteof home-cooked ravioliwould warm my stomachfrom the chill of the night.And although the fall timespeaks of an eerie scene,my train of thought stillconsistently turns back -To the memories restingunder that ravishing tree,where puzzles of the daywould slowly unpack.
Maiden of the Olive Oil TreeMaiden of the olive oil tree -caryatid body, color of cream,how do you fare against the crumbling temple?How do you fare against the pressureweighting upon your chest?For you have long kept this temple,broken, like a mother.You have long adorned itwith your cultivated crest.But when the framework falters -the foundation all decaying -will you climb the olive branches,free, no more inept?And bathe in oil satin,to smooth the ancient scarring,as time releases tensionfrom your ankles to your breasts.
Candle WaxChorusShe rolls her heart in candle wax -tries to fill the hollow cracks,until a fire impels flameand empties herall the same.She rolls her heart in candle wax -a wick yet burning oh so fast;the speed impairs her very frameand empties herall the same.---------------Sometimes, life takes its tolland melts us to the inner core.We ask, "Where is the calm?Where is the peace?Where is the senseof sufficiency?"'Cause we're doneliving in the smoke -o v e r r u nas if we're going to choke.And just when weget over what's passed,we fall right backto the candle ----------------Back to chorus x1---------------In the realm of hungry fire,when the dream of rest is dire,don't try to roll a heart awayin the same thing that's soon to decay.---------------Back to chorus x2---------------Empties her all the same.Empties her all the same.
After CenturiesThe towers hover;they do not budge.But time uncoverswhat is and was.The treasures lost,the jewels unseenwill one day leavetheir quarantine.
MarigoldsYou call yourself a man,yet shamelessly crushmy pile of marigoldsbeneath your feet -your old rubber solesgrinding the petalslike mortar and pestle.Those apricot leaves.But you never knew lovein the form of a flower;how vibrant, how gallantlike the sun it could be.And you never knew thatthe true secret to manhoodis boldness with a touchof sensitivity.
Irish-Inspired HaikusGreen chrysanthemumsembellish red coils of hair,welcoming the spring._________________His eyes are dark brown,but they convert to olivewhen the stars ascend._________________The stone never lies;luck shall forever be yours -lest you fall to ash._________________Hear the wind whistlethrough exhausted fields of sheep,and think of my love.
Wish-come-trueBe careful what you want,For some wishes,Death is eager to grant.
Flirting with BouquetsFlirting with Bouquetsshe pricks her fingerson rose bud thorns andneverexplains why to the boywho grabs her hands andasks. all she can do isshrug and say she likesthe coloring - how herporcelain finger blushesprofusely from the sweet, sudden, stingingkiss until it can't containitself anymore, and revealsthe secrets it's kept hiddenfor far too long.
...I didn'tbuildthis castleso you couldsit onyour throneoflies.
The Big PictureI have been a puzzle piece;and I have been a puzzle missing pieces.But never in my lifehave I been arrogant (or full) enoughto call myself whole.
Kitchen BluesSunday was chicken and collards with rice.Yesterday, fried ham and bacon served twice.But today, no Lord, it's in your hands—ain't nothin’ shaken on this plate, just the baby grand.I get tipsy when bread dough’s risin’, like my love.Good God, I can’t help myself, like my love.Straight from the stove,butter meltin’ on slabs o’ warm bread.I say, I get tipsy when the yeast goes to my head.Sweet Jesus, I can’t hear you,you know what I’m talkin’ about.Soon as the weather breaks tonight,she's goin’ out, she won’t be stayin’ in.She’ll smell BBQ from the chicken shacknear the red lights 'cross town.But this sinner don’t care what she wearsor doesn't cook, and I'll begas the darkness swallows her from my sight.
SeclusionSeclusion Sometimes you need seclusion to reclaim your mind.Blacken your vision and close your eyes,Plug your ears from the outside,As you fall back, back inside of “I.”And not “we,” “he,” “she,” but me.Sometimes to find myself, I must lose everyone else.
NebulaNebula I’ve never been closer,To the permanent entity,Of deathBefore in my life,As I have been now.This isn’t somethin’ you come to grips with,Nor is it somethin' you handle,With a wave of a hand, flick of the wrist,Or bat of an eye. You’re more like having a bat’s eyesight,Near-blind because you can hardly see,What’s coming to beNor what may arise. It’s so fast,So unexpected,Unrelenting in its pursuit,And unwavering in its impact.Shaking anyone who comes into contact,With the whiff of death that consumes the air, And constricts our breathing passages,As you see someone you love,Go down in flames and fadin’.In (and out) the nebula of smoke. Death isn’t so scary. Disappearing is.Just say goodbye,(I love you.)Before you die.
I Don't Bleed Poetry (But I Love It)I Don’t Bleed Poetry (But I Love It) Some seem to be born with an innate ability to be effortlessly poetic,But I don’t seem to be, I’m not extremely convoluted in my language,I’m not one to paint incredible images mixed with delicate artistry and gorgeous personification,But I try my damndest to make sure my thoughts are personable and thought-provokin’I want my writings to sound like I’m talking with you and we’re having a conversation,So you can get a look into my mind and how I view the world’s state of progression,But I try to do it in a way that’s most natural to me, to show you every lesson,So you can truly understand the various locations of my forever-moving attention,To show you the wide range of feelings I experience, the highest and lowest of my subconscious,My elation to my depression, poetry for me is the art form of true communication,So maybe I’m not the most complex or the most po
Killing The Self (Drawing On The Surface)Killing The Self (Drawing On The Surface) But you can’t draw on your stem cells,Or place wings to your frontal lobe,You can’t force yourself to be okay,After feeling so lowFor so long,You can’t just climb Everest,Nor ever rest.You can’t stab your flagOn the top of the mountain,If you’ve shoved it in your chest.The apex supposedly eventual,But you concede victoryBefore you even begin towards the pinnacle. You’re at the bottom,Like seaweed stuck near the ocean floor,Washed ashore, shine down,Died down,As the tide takes your lifeAs you hide and drown.From the wordsThat swallows your breathAs you speak of them.Choking yourself on your damnationBefore someone else stones you. You slash your self-conceptionWith the jagged edgesOf cold contention,Stuck in an old dimensionConvincing your perceptionThat you are unessential. Self-fufilling propheciesDrawn on your mindLike hieroglyphic
LiarYou said we'd do this togetherThat we'll see this through to the endSide by sideAs brothers in arms.You said you'd always have my backThat I won't have to do this aloneWe're partnersNothing could stop us.Then why?Why won't you open your eyes?Why won't you say anything?Why won't you answer me?It can't end this way!You said we'd do this together.You said you'd always have my back.Liar.
DustYou can tell who someone is, by where the dust is, in their homeIn a home free of dust, the business man works, dust cannot settle, when the ground is always movingA worn man sleeps in his chair, there is dust on the floor of the bedroom, he cannot sleep in there now, and there is dust on the once clean kitchen, why clean if you are aloneChildren run outside, the mother holds the door of the home, everything is damp and dirty, where their grubby hands have been, the only static, dusty thing here, is the book in which she used to write poetryMy house is coated in dust left undisturbed,
This HallA few years ago I just sawA crippled man walk through this hallHe passed the mute who told me liesAbout birds who swim and fish that flyThen the mime who shouts his actTurned to me to face his backPulled a knife from his gun holderAimed and shot me in the shoulderThe stab wound blistered like a burnI fell to the ground and stood sternThe armless woman reached for my handThe police were called by the mute manWhen they came they arrested meFor his crimes, the mime was set freeAnd the blind man just there stood in aweAt what he’d seen inside this hall
Due courseAlthough times may be achingly tough––and the sea is raging increasingly rough.All that starts, will end in due course––all that rises falls back to the source.Good and bad are wed, divorce precluded––hand in hand they pace, seldom secluded.One without the other, loses it's definition––contrary in path, identical in mission.Give time some time, just let it be––endure the pain, for it births glee.© Rocio Belinda Mendez 2013
Ink StainThere's something about making these linesthe disconnect between the ink and the words in my mindthat makes me wonder if it all makes its way to youor if you only see traces of what I can really doAre they real?tangible, that your heart can touch them?Or just an illusion I'm a plain magiciandoing parlor tricks in the backpulling fancy phrases out of a hatMy skill is unmatched and you seem unattachedfrom what I doand maybe it's truethat you don't seethe things I want you to learn from meMy lessons remain untaughtand I see boredom in your eyesyou wish something to be boughtmaybe new tiesmy wisdom evaporatesyou don't inhaleyou're dying at a rapid ratemy teachings start to failI'm at a lossI thought this bridge could be crossedbut you felland you don't respond at all to my spellhow can you possibly be revivedwhen I'm not even sure if you were ever alive?
MiceI think mice, are rather nice.Their tails are long,Their eyes are bright,they run about the house at night.People think thy're horrible things but,I think mice are rather nice.
On Human Nature and DeathWhen I was twelve years old, a friend of mine died. He was a classmate, one whom I was quite close with. We used to fight over our grades all the time; he was more mathematically superior in comparison to me, but I held top position for language skills. It was after the long holiday that came after the final year exams – that period of time where you had to come to school but had absolutely nothing to do but play with your friends for seven hours straight. The day I came to school, I had expected everyone to be the same as they always were after a long holiday; bored and wanting to stay at home, but also excited to see friends and trade stories. I was surprised when I came to class and saw that everyone was in a sombre mood. Some of my classmates were crying. I asked one of them what had happened, and he told me that one of our classmates had died, and it was my friend. He had wandered alone at the hotel his family was staying at and had fallen into the deep end of a swimmi
Leave the GraveAbandon the grave,For I'm not home,My soul has passed on,To realms above.My body within,The earth's embrace,Is just a shell,Decaying away.
Luck LostCeltic crosses, crooked and worn,find joy among the spring;the evil that was long ago bornhas left the fairy ring.And I have left, broken and torn,for the bells have yet to sing -just emptiness and seldom a scorn;the daffodils demean.